Z snapped off a few more shots and placed the camera in the backseat of the Explorer. I took a sip of a bottled water we’d brought from the gym. He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. When there was action, he was all intensity and energy. But when we waited, he could rest anywhere. I was envious.
“Does it bother you that you will have to start over in L.A.?” I said. “With a new mentor and a more rigorous process to get your license?”
“License,” he said. “I don’t need a stinking license.”
“My introductions on the West Coast are only if you need help,” I said. “Not a place of employment. Whatever you do, don’t work for Del Rio.”
“You said he’s an honorable man,” he said. “And can be trusted.”
“He’s also a ruthless criminal.”
“I want to do what you do.”
I nodded. “And to do that, you have to get licensed.”
“And to do what Hawk does?”
“Attitude,” I said.
Inside the pastry shop, the merry trio threw their heads back in laughter. Johnny Donovan was laughing so hard he slapped the table a few times. Teehan said something else and pointed to Johnny and then ate half a donut. I waited for Johnny to pull a gun and fire a few rounds into the air like he had in the video.
“I do want to thank you,” Z said.
I inhaled a long breath through my nose and held up a hand to dismiss any adulation. Adulation couldn’t be appreciated in the absence of donuts. Or good beer.
“I was a mess when I came here.”
“You would have found a way,” I said. “Tough-minded people always do.”
“If you or Hawk ever need me.”
I nodded. There was no more to say.
We watched the trio stand behind the plate-glass window. It wasn’t unlike watching animals in a zoo display. Donovan walked back toward the bathrooms. Teehan and the third man walked out toward a parking lot shared with an all-night packie. Z reached back for the camera, took a few pics, and handed me the camera. The third man was tall and lean with close-cropped silver hair. He had on khaki cargo shorts and a basic black T-shirt.
He drove off in a black sedan. It looked almost like police issue but I didn’t want to entertain any more conspiracy theories on an empty stomach.
“Did you get a shot of the plate?” Z said.
“You may be the one from Montana,” I said. “But this ain’t my first rodeo.”
I waited a full minute and drove away, U-turning south on Dot Ave. I told him what I’d learned from Teddy Cahill, and why Cahill suspected the property owner near the church had been apprehensive about turning over the security camera feed.
“So we might have to persuade them,” Z said.
“It may be bad karma to pistol-whip a florist.”
“Is this considered breaking the law?”
“I’m pretty sure what we’re doing isn’t legal or ethical.”
Z smiled very wide. The idea intrigued him. Watch out, City of Angels.
45
This fire that may be on video,” Z said. “It started before or after your apartment?”
“After,” I said. “Arson thinks someone played the fire department. They waited until several companies headed to the Back Bay and then set this warehouse on fire.”
“Just to make sure you knew.”
“We’re two blocks from Holy Innocents,” I said. “So it seems to be another not-so-subtle message.”
“How are the firefighters?”
“Still in the hospital,” I said. “Burns and some nasty smoke inhalation.”
I drove for a couple blocks off Tremont Street deep in the South End. On the next pass, we spotted a two-story brick building set off from the other warehouses. It had a chain-link fence around the perimeter and a sign reading BOSTON FLORAL. For the next hour or so, we watched several cars and vans come and go, a gate sliding open and shut behind them. We noted nothing suspicious. But we did spot at least two video cameras on the corners of the building.
“Busy for two a.m.”
I nodded. “Everyone loves a bouquet.”
“If it’s a legit operation,” Z said, “they’d have no problem with me stopping in. Asking for a dozen roses.”
“True.”
“And if not,” Z said. “They might take great exception and get nasty and physical.”
“Also true.”
“But at least we’d know who we’re dealing with,” Z said. “And what to expect.”
I started the Explorer and drove close to the gate. We waited for ten minutes until the gate slid open again and a green van departed. I darted into the warehouse lot just as the gate closed. The lot was empty. We got out of the Explorer just as two men walked out of the warehouse. I was no expert, but they did not appear to be florists. One man was black and muscular, the other was white and doughy. They both carried shotguns.
“I’m looking to purchase a pick-me-up bouquet,” I said. “Preferably with polka dots and posies.”
“We don’t sell to the public,” said the white guy. “Get the fuck outta here.”
“Don’t you guys arrange more than flowers?” Z said.
“They arrange smiles,” I said. I kept walking toward the landing, arms outstretched, showing my palms. Z walked in stride with me. The black man stood still, eyeing us, shotgun held in his left hand.